


There is Only One Heart in My Body

by BrighteyedJill



Category: Being Human (UK), Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Crossover, M/M, Secrets, Werewolves
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-23
Updated: 2013-02-23
Packaged: 2017-12-03 08:32:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,250
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/696336
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BrighteyedJill/pseuds/BrighteyedJill
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>George thought Mitchell was on board with pretending the supernatural didn’t exist, but then again Mitchell had neglected to mention the “being friends with a wizard” situation.</p>
            </blockquote>





	There is Only One Heart in My Body

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ozmissage](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ozmissage/gifts).



> Title from the poem [One Heart ](http://friendswaffleswerq.tumblr.com/post/13255988253/one-heart-franz-wright) by Franz Wright. Thanks to Perdicass for the last-minute super-speedy beta action.

George startled awake when a loud bang, like a backfiring car, reverberated through the house. He flailed his way clear of his nest of blankets and grabbed the first weapon that came to hand—a rolled up copy of the _Radio Times_. “Mitchell?” he whispered.

In the spill of streetlight through the cheap blinds, George could see Mitchell crouched atop his own makeshift bed. “Hear that?” he mouthed.

“Of course I heard it.” George pulled on the first item of clothing that came to hand, because he’s not going to die in his boxer shorts, thank you very much, and grumbled, “I thought you said this place was safe. You stayed here before, didn’t you?”

“It _is_ safe.” Mitchell crept to the door and listened. “It’s probably just burglars.” 

“ _Just_ burglars?!”

“Yeah,” Mitchell said. “Just regular burglars and not vampires come to kill us.”

“Oh, good then.” George took it as a sign of how strange his life had become that he meant that sincerely. 

“Come on. They’ll probably run at the first sign of trouble.” Mitchell eased the door open. “We’ll just charge down there screaming, all right?”

“Well,” George said, gripping his _Radio Times_ , but Mitchell had already started to move. As George followed him down the stairs, he had no trouble producing a high-pitched scream which would, he reflected, at the very least startle the intruders. 

The small living room was pitch-dark, and although it didn’t hold much furniture, it hadn’t been arranged to facilitate running. Right off, George ran smack into someone too tall and skinny to be Mitchell. His magazine dropped from his hand, and he fell to the floor along with the burglar in a heap of tangled limbs. The appropriate thing to do, he imagined, was punch, so George balled his hands into fists and struck at the intruder. 

“ _Impedimenta_!” shouted an unfamiliar voice. A burst of light lit up the scene: a figure in a long coat pointing at Mitchell with something too long and skinny to be a gun.

“George, the stick!” Mitchell shouted. “Go for the stick!”

George revised his punching strategy to grabbing, and found himself clutching a polished length of wood. His assailant growled. No sooner had George wrested the stick away and rolled away from grasping hands than he found himself pinned by enormous paws. George’s scream, then, found previously unknown heights of shrillness. 

The attack dog—it had to be that—nearly crushed George under its weight as it shoved its muzzle against George’s head, obviously looking for the best angle to rip out his throat. George curled up on his side and tucked his arms over his face, trying to delay the inevitable savaging.

Far below the noise of his continuing hysteria, George heard a sickening hiss—one he’d heard from plenty of vampires before, but seldom from Mitchell: a furious noise that almost always ended in blood. 

“Mitchell!” he shouted. As much as George didn’t want to be mauled by a mad dog or beaten up by common criminals, he wanted even less for Mitchell to fall off the wagon defending him. “Humans! Don’t!” 

“Sirius! The blood! Let go of—" the stranger who’d attacked Mitchell was shouting. “ _Stupefy_!” 

Mitchell’s hiss turned into a furious scream. George peeked out from under his arm as another flash of light showed Mitchell slamming into the far wall with a sickening thud. 

“Mitchell!” George tried to squirm away, but the dog dropped its weight against him. Its snarling had dropped to a low growl, and it no longer seemed poised to bite. When George went limp, the dog backed off.

“Lumos.” A warm light flooded the room, emanating from the burglar’s stick like a torch. He knelt next to Mitchell’s slumped form and whispered a few words. To George’s relief, Mitchell opened his eyes and sat up. “Mitchell? Are you alright? I’m sorry I had to—"

“No, it’s fine.” Mitchell rubbed the back of his head and glanced over at where George was still pressed to the floor. “All the blood, werewolf blood, I thought George—"

“I’m fine.” George pushed to his feet with one eye on the enormous black dog, now sitting on its haunches and maintaining a general air of menace. “I’m not hurt.” He raised his hands to show Mitchell his miraculously un-bloodied state.

“Good.” Mitchell turned his attention back to the intruder. In the soft light of the torch-thingy, his clothes were torn, dirty, and stained with blood. “But look at you. What’s happened?”

“A bit of an ambush, I’m afraid. It’s a long story.” The man gestured to the animal that had attacked George. “This is Sirius Black.”

The dog grew and blurred before George’s eyes until a man stood where the animal had been: a tall, sallow-faced man with wavy hair and a moustache who looked rather more like a retired folk singer than a burglar. 

“What did—How did you?” George turned to Mitchell, who looked not at all alarmed. “He’s a—a…”

“The word you’re looking for is animagus,” said the man who’d been a dog.

“Right. George, this is Remus Lupin.” Mitchell put his hand on the burglar-who-was-not-a-dog’s shoulder. “Remus, George Sands.”

“Yes, hello. Can I ask... Just...” Unable to formulate an actual question—the ones in his head all sounded wrong to ask out loud—George decided to stick with a tried-and-true solution to any problem. “Shall I make some tea?”  
\--

George still hadn’t quite decided if this was all some horrible dream brought on by the take-away curry they’d had for dinner by the time he brought in a second pot of tea to the impromptu reunion in the shabby living room. 

“It’s not as if I’m a complete social misfit,” Mitchell was saying. He nodded at George as he dropped into his usual place beside Mitchell on the couch. “He’s one of your lot.”

“A wizard?” Remus asked.

“A werewolf.”

“Wonderful,” Sirius said from his perch on a straight-backed chair. “A house full of dark creatures.”

“Sirius, please.” Remus laid a hand on his knee.

“Mitchell,” George hissed.

“It’s fine. Remus is a werewolf, too,” Mitchell said. “First one I knew properly.”

“You’re a werewolf?” George asked. Then a more urgent question occurred to him, and he turned to Mitchell. “You’ve known other werewolves?”

“I know lots of people.” Mitchell quickly turned his attention back to Remus. “But we haven’t seen each other in years. Middle of the night on a Wednesday’s a bit of a strange time for a visit, isn’t it?”

“It was rather an emergency, I’m afraid. We didn’t anticipate—“

“Remus,” Sirius said sharply. The two shared a tense look, then Remus averted his eyes. 

“In any case,” Remus said, “we apologize for barging in.”

“You could have gone anywhere,” Mitchell said. “Why here?”

Remus fiddled with his teacup. “Mitchell, I have to ask, has there been anyone nosing around? Among your kind, I mean. Yours and ours. Recruiting.”

Mitchell leaned in closer and lowered his voice. “Agents of you-know-who.”

“Yes.”

“You Know Who who?” George asked.

“Voldemort,” Sirius said, as if that explained everything. 

“Not here. No one’s come to me, anyway, but I have heard things.” Mitchell leaned even further toward their guests, and George found himself leaning in too, straining to hear. “Death Eaters in Bristol, in Cardiff. You think he’s recruiting the likes of us?”

“We know he is,” Sirius said. 

“George and I keep ourselves to ourselves.” Mitchell sat back and wrapped his hands around his teacup. “I’m not a part of that world anymore.”

“Yes, I know. We thought, since nobody knows you, it might be safe here,” Remus said slowly. “Just for a few days. Until after the full moon.”

“That’s a week!” George felt compelled to point out, in a voice that wasn’t as polite as he’d intended.

“Remus, you know I’d help you if I could, but I don’t want— “ Mitchell sighed. “Look. You’re both wizards. George and I aren’t exactly Muggles, but if your friend there took it in mind to hex one of us, we could hardly stop him.”

“Oh, the _vampire_ thinks a wizard’s too dangerous to live with,” Sirius sneered.

“Mitchell, I give you my word we mean no harm. We need to check up on the Death Eaters’ recruiting, and we need a safe base of operations where no one will think to look for us. Just for a few days.” Remus set his cup and saucer on the floor and folded his hands in his lap. “I know you don’t want things to be like they were during the war. That’s what we’re trying to prevent. Will you help?”

“Fine. Just for the week.”

George tried to give Mitchell a “we should really talk before making big decisions like this, don’t you think” signal by means of widening his eyes, tilting his head, and employing a very urgent facial expression, but Mitchell didn’t seem to notice. 

“Listen. It’s late. I bet you’re knackered.” Mitchell stood up and began collecting teacups. “Why don’t you two take the room upstairs? It’s not much, but it’s warm.”

“Mitchell?” George whispered. He eyed the blood and dirt their guests had already tracked all over the living room.

“What?” Mitchell spread his hands, as if he honestly had no idea what George’s objection might be.

“Sorry to be a nuisance. Here. _Scourgify_.” Remus waved the stick that he’d drawn from his coat around the room. The dirt and bloodstains vanished, the couch cushions shifted into perfect alignment, and the framed poster of Bowie that Mitchell had pulled out of a wheelie bin straightened itself on the wall.

“Okay,” George said. “I’ll get you some fresh towels.”  
\--

Two grown men sleeping on an overstuffed couch hadn’t made for a particularly comfortable night, but they’d seen worse: huddled for warmth in the backseat of Mitchell’s car, suffering in that bedsit that turned out to have fleas, or sleeping rough one particularly wretched week in March when their money had run out. And anyway, George woke up naked on the forest floor once a month, so drifting awake to find a crick in his neck and Mitchell’s sharp elbow in his side seemed almost comfortable. 

George didn’t know what wizards liked to eat, but eggs seemed a safe bet, so he fried up a pan’s worth and brewed a pot of coffee. Mitchell was still dozing on the couch, sprawled over far more territory than such a skinny man had any right to occupy, when Sirius and Remus made their appearance. 

By the light of day, they seemed much less threatening and mysterious, and more haggard. Sirius looked like he hadn’t bathed in a week. Remus’ clothes were patched and shabby, and the fluorescent light of the kitchen revealed faded scars on his face that made George turn right back to tending the eggs. 

“Listen,” George said once they’d sat down at the cramped kitchen table to eat. “If you’re staying a week... The full moon’s on Tuesday, is all.”

“Yes, I hadn’t forgotten.” Remus gave George an understanding smile.

“Well, I found a place to transform. It’s far enough away from town, and the woods are big enough we might not run into each other.”

Remus and Sirius shared a look. 

“Of course, if you’ve made other plans...” George frowned.

“Tell me, what do you remember from your transformations?” Remus asked.

“Nothing. I’m not myself. The wolf takes over, takes total control, and I never know where I’ve been or what I’ve done.” George stabbed viciously at a bit of egg. “I hate it.”

“Not all werewolves do,” Sirius said. “Some welcome the change, when it comes. Some see it as a blessing: the power that comes with the transformation—"

“Power?” George glared at him. “You mean horrible pain, followed by losing your mind and turning into a dangerous beast that will hurt anyone who gets in its way. Is that power?”

“I wouldn’t say so, no. This is.” Remus held up a large glass jar filled with a murky blue substance. “Wolfsbane potion.”

In short order, breakfast was cleared away, and Remus had assembled a sort of field lab on the kitchen table. Mitchell wandered in to claim a plate of eggs, at which point Sirius had wandered off with a few muttered words about sending messages. George and Mitchell stood watching what appeared to be a brass cauldron rotating in midair over a magic flame. 

“So, we’re doing potions, now?” Mitchell asked around a mouthful of eggs. 

“Just the final step,” Remus explained. He executed a flourish with his stick, and the blue liquid in the cauldron began to boil. “There.” He snatched a coffee mug from the worktop, dipped it into the concoction, and held it out to George.

“I am not drinking that.”

“It’s been brewed by an expert,” Remus said.

“It’s smoking!”

“It’s meant to smoke.”

“George, if Remus says it’ll help, it’ll help,” Mitchell said.

George stared at the smoking mug of blue stuff. Here was something else totally insane appearing in his life with no consideration for a normal, sane worldview. Did people really stand in their kitchens with a vampire, accepting brews from visiting wizards? He looked up at Remus. “How long have you been a werewolf?”

“Since I was a child.”

“You weren’t born—?”

“No, no. Turned before I was ten.”

“So young.” George vividly remembered the pain of the bite, the blinding terror of the werewolf coming at him. He didn’t like to imagine a young version of Remus facing that. “Sorry.”

“It hasn’t been easy, but I’ve managed my condition all this time. I’ve had a little help from friends.” He smiled at Mitchell. “This potion is the most effective thing I’ve found. One goblet every day in the week leading up to the full moon.”

“What does it do?” George asked.

“It will make you less likely to hurt someone.”

“Oh.” George ran his tongue over his teeth, remembering the taste of blood in his mouth the morning after a full moon and the pounding of his heart as he checked the papers for reports of an animal attack. The potion was still smoking. “You first.”

Remus tipped back the mug and drained it all. His face wrinkled into a grimace. “Always tastes disgusting.”

“That’s a ringing endorsement.”

“It doesn’t come in cherry flavour.” Remus dipped the mug back into the cauldron and held it out to George. “Well?”

George took the mug and looked at Mitchell, who stood against the wall clutching his coffee mug. 

“You know,” Mitchell said. “If there was a potion that could stop me from hurting someone, I’d take it in a second.”

“This is... completely insane.” George swallowed his mug of magic potion.  
\--

“So it’s just a magic stick,” George said from his place on the couch. “You say words and the right thingy comes out? Like a Swiss Army knife?”

Sirius tightened his grip on the wand. “Not like any kind of knife, Swiss or otherwise. A wand channels the wizard’s power. Most wizards can’t do magic without one, not properly, anyway.”

“Will it work for anyone?” George leaned in to get a closer look.

“No.” Sirius held his wand further away from George. “Only witches or wizards. Excuse me.” He pointed the wand at the living room wall. “ _Cave inimicum_.” With a flick of his wrist, a green burst of light spilled forth from the wand, spread across the length and breadth of the wall, and evaporated. 

“ _Cave_...” George repeated. “Beware, enemies? What’s that, some kind of warning?”

“More like a shield spell.” Sirius narrowed his eyes at George. “How did you--? Never mind.” He turned back to the wall. “ _Protego totalum_.”

“More defences?”

“ _Muffliato_.”

“Muffled.... Quieting something. Preventing eavesdropping, I suppose.”

“ _Salvio hexia_.”

“Saved from... hexia. Hexes, I imagine. Those are a magical thing, aren’t they?”

“Repello Muggletum.”

“Repel... something. Don’t know what one.”

Sirus turned around a lowered his wand. “What are you doing?”

“Listening. I know quite a few languages.” George waved his hand. “Your little incantations seem simple enough. No one seems very keen on explaining anything to me, so I thought I had better start working it out for myself.”

“Is it so complicated?” Sirius frowned.

“Oh, I don’t know.” George folded his arms over his chest and considered the situation. “Two strangers appear in our house in the middle of the night with dire warnings about some evil wizard and start flinging sparks at the walls. I don’t think I’m unreasonable in wanting a bit of an explanation!”

“Fine.” Sirius tucked his wand away. “My Remus helped your mate out of a tight spot a few years back. Remus thought he’d be willing to help with this mission. Maybe he can, maybe he can’t. I’m here to watch Remus’ back, and to keep him safe during the full moon. That’s all.”

George looked hard at Sirius. “You don’t think much of Mitchell, do you?”

“He’s a vampire. They’re not known for being trustworthy.”

“He might surprise you. He saved my life when there was absolutely nothing in it for him. And he’s stuck with me, too. He’s...” George didn’t quite know how to explain how central Mitchell had become to his life in the past year. The scared, pathetic creature Mitchell had met in that alley probably wouldn’t have risked annoying a man with a magic wand. Said man, in fact, seemed to be waiting for George to finish his sentence. “You have to give him some credit. After all, living with a werewolf isn’t always a picnic.”

Sirius cracked an actual smile. “Right you are.”  
\--

George was introducing Sirius to the joys of daytime telly when a loud bang—that same backfire car effect—sounded right behind the couch. George whirled around to see Remus let go of Mitchell, who then fell to his knees and wretched. 

“Apparition can be uncomfortable the first time,” Sirius said, a bit smugly for George’s taste.

“Sorry.” Remus offered Mitchell a hand up. “It seemed best to get out of there quickly.”

“I agree.” Mitchell let Remus help get him on his feet, but he still looked a little peaky. “Could have done without the being squeezed into a tin can and vacuum-sealed, though.”

“It’s not so dramatic as all that,” Sirius muttered.

“Right. So...” George found himself struggling to settle on what exactly to ask, as he often had since their guests had arrived. “Where were you two?”

“I offered to help check on those reports Remus had got about Death Eaters recruiting at the nest in Sheffield,” Mitchell said.

“And?” Sirius stood, actually interested now that the conversation had moved beyond Mitchell’s well-being.

“Short answer: yes,” Remus said. 

“You should have let me take him.” Sirius came to Remus and looked him over, as if checking for injuries. “I don’t like you putting yourself at risk like this.”

“You can’t be seen. You’re not even supposed to... If Albus knew you’d left Grimmauld Place...” Remus grabbed Sirius by the wrist to stop him turning away. “You promised you wouldn’t do anything rash.”

“I know,” Sirius said softly. “I won’t.”

George kept his attention on Mitchell, who’d slumped into the room’s squashy armchair, looking limp and drained. “Did you have any kind of a plan?” George asked. “Just wander in and start asking if there were any evil wizards poking about?”

“Basically, yeah.”

“You’re terrible at strategy. I mean absolutely... Did you even stop to--?” George knew the answer to that. “No, of course not. And, let me guess, they didn’t like strangers?”

“Not really, no,” Mitchell muttered.

“I bet it doesn’t help that you smell like a werewolf. You do know that, yes? Werewolf smell? All over you?” George waved a hand at the couch where they’d been sleeping. “Did you consider what kind of a message that sends to most vampires? They hate us, Mitchell.”

“I know.” Mitchell stared at his shoes.

“Then be more careful.”

“Okay.”

George leaned over the back of the couch to look at the wizards who were partially responsible for this mess. “And honestly, Remus, don’t trust this man to have any sort of plan.”

“I didn’t mean to put him in danger.”

“Don’t worry about that.” George shook his head. “We’re always in danger. At least this time he brought backup.”  
\--

Mitchell passed out early in the evening, still exhausted from his experience with Apparition, which apparently was some form of magic teleportation that sometimes induced vomiting. Or not: George didn’t want to pry too deeply into the details of wizarding tricks. Instead, he sat in the kitchen drinking beer with Remus and Sirius.

“How well did you know him, before?” George asked.

“Well enough,” Remus said, which was about the level of detail he’d got out of Mitchell when he asked. “He was different, then.”

“Still drinking blood, you mean.” George finished off his beer and went to the refrigerator for a fresh one.

“No. He’d been on the wagon for some time.” Remus rolled his bottle between his hands. “He just seemed... Adrift. Tired. With you, it’s like he’s found something to enjoy about life. How long have you known him?”

George counted up the months in his head; he hadn’t realized it had been so long. “About a year.”

“But you were bitten before that?” Sirius asked.

“What? Yes.” George pried the cap off his bottle and took a swig. “I was on holiday. In Scotland.”

“Lovely mountains, there,” Remus said.

“I find I’ve lost my taste for them.”

“And you’ve never...” Sirius prompted. 

“Never?” George returned to his seat.

“Never met another werewolf, he means. Never fell in with a pack,” Remus explained. “It’s his subtle way of asking if you’ve been recruited by Death Eaters.”

“Don’t you have a potion to heat?” Sirius scowled at Remus.

“I suppose.” Remus gave Sirius an indulgent pat on the shoulder, then left his drink on the table and retreated upstairs.

Sirius turned back to George. “Well, have you?”

“No. Remus is the first werewolf I’ve met.”

“I see.” Sirius narrowed his eyes at George, as if trying to see through him somehow. George couldn’t tell if he was employing some wizarding technique, or just being his usual charming self. “Not even the werewolf that made you?”

“I don’t know who he is.” George gulped down another swallow of beer, thinking about the wolf who had scratched him. About whether he’d want to kill him, if they ever met. “I was alone, utterly alone for the first six months, after... It wasn’t until Mitchell found me that I had any idea I wasn’t the only one with a curse.”

“Does he help? During the full moon?”

“Of course he helps. He looks after my things, brings me my clothes in the morning. Patches me up if I’m injured. Even brings me breakfast. Donuts with little sprinkles.”

“No,” Sirius said. “I mean during the transformation.”

“What could he do? The wolf hurts anything that comes near it.” George imagined Mitchell in the woods, running for his life, and shuddered. “I don’t want to be responsible for that.”

“I understand.”

“You’ve seen Remus transform?”

Sirius nodded. 

George stared at his beer. “It’s unimaginably painful. Like dying, really. Then it takes over, and I disappear: ripped out of myself and replaced with that thing.”

“You talk about it like it’s not you.”

“It’s _not_ me,” George snapped. “That thing is dangerous. It’s a mad animal, and a killer. It’s not me.”

“Hm. I won’t say it’s not dangerous--I certainly know how dangerous Remus can be when he’s transformed—but there was always part of Remus in the wolf. He recognized me, even when he hardly knew himself.”

George shook his head. He couldn’t imagine ever having something in common with the monster that took him over on the full moon. “Maybe it’s different for wizards.”

“Maybe,” Sirius said. “It must have been strange, not having anyone to talk to about this. My family are all wizards, so I’ve always known what I was. But I understand how difficult it can be to stay sane in a place where no one really understands what you are.”

George nodded. He’d buried himself so deep, a year ago, that he’d almost given up hope. He might have, if something hadn’t changed. If he hadn’t had someone to help him. “I have Mitchell.”

“Hm.” Sirius frowned. “I hope that’s enough.” 

“George!” Remus arrived with two smoking mugs. “Care for an evening refreshment?”  
\--

George had ensconced himself on the stair to read the newspaper’s help wanted section in peace, but he’d only circled two possibilities before he realized how suspiciously quiet the house had become. When he crept down to the ground floor, he found Mitchell alone on the couch, watching Never Mind the Buzzcocks with the sound off. George peered around the corner to the kitchen, looking for wizards, but found none. “Where’d they go?” he asked.

“Remus said something about Apparating over to Knockturn Alley to get some supplies, and Sirius is sending an owl to his godson, who happens to be—get this!—Harry Potter.” Mitchell glanced up from the screen to give George an incredulous grin. “I know, isn’t that bizarre?”

George nodded, and kept nodding, because none of that sentence made any sense to him whatsoever. There Mitchell sat, eating Nutella with a spoon like it was any day of the week, without the common decency to even act concerned at all the madness that had invaded their perfectly ordinary, barely-even-supernatural-at-all lives.

He slumped down to sit on the last step. “Why did you never tell me any of this?”

Mitchell frowned at him. “Sirius just told me about the Harry Potter business.”

“Not that. Not _that_ , Mitchell. Everything.”

“You’re going to have to be a bit more specific.”

“You knew about this. There’s a whole culture of people out there who when you say you’re a vampire, ask nothing about it and help themselves to tea.”

“That’s not how it is.” Mitchell jabbed his spoon into the Nutella jar and tossed it aside. “Those people hate and fear us just as much as anyone. Maybe more, since they know what we’re really capable of.”

“Sirius and Remus don’t seem very hateful or fearful.”

“They’re different. They’re friends.” Mitchell shook his head. “Well, Remus is.”

“You kept it from me! When I had no idea what was happening, or how to manage my condition, you knew there were people who could have helped, and you said nothing.”

“You’re the one who wanted us to be human! To be normal. Either you want that, or you want us to throw our lot in with the magical world.” Mitchell spread his arms wide. “We can’t do both.”

“You shouldn’t have kept it from me.” George turned and swept up the stairs.  
\--

In the last days before a full moon, George’s senses went into overdrive. Everything sounded, smelled, and tasted harsh. A house packed full of too many voices had driven him onto the street. At least out here, the sounds and the smells mingled together into a kind of white noise. He’d nicked Mitchell’s cigarettes and lighter, but he leaned against the side of the house fiddling with one of the cigarettes and not lighting it. He’d never been a smoker, actually. He’d mostly taken them to irritate Mitchell.

If he concentrated, he could pick individual sounds in his surroundings: a lorry idling on the next street over, the radio blaring from a passing car, and there—the door to the house opening and slamming shut. Mitchell must be home. 

“I knew your name sounded familiar.” Mitchell’s voice, raised as it was, carried easily through the window to George’s left. Fainter than it should be, given the distance, but perhaps that was some of Sirius’ magical protections at work.

“The Blacks are a respected wizarding family, but I wouldn’t expect you to be familiar with magical pedigrees.” That was Sirius. Calmer than Mitchell, and quieter. 

“I’ve done my research. You escaped from Azkaban. Apparently, the authorities are still looking for you.”

“You planning to turn me in for the reward money?”

“Remus persuaded me not to. He trusts you. That’s what I don’t understand.”

“I’ve been there for Remus, every time I could, even when it wasn’t easy. George told me about his transformations: how confusing and painful they are. He faces them all alone.”

“There’s nothing I can do about that.” Some of the anger had gone out of Mitchell’s voice.

“Did you know that werewolves are only a danger to humans? They leave animals alone, if they’re not hunting.”

“What does that have to do with anything?”

“When we were at school together, Remus didn’t have to transform alone.”

“Your animal form.”

“The wolf wouldn’t attack a dog, or a stag, or a rat. He had company, even when he was out of his mind and suffering. He said our presence helped calm him, and let him keep some small amount of control. He wasn’t alone.”

“Why are you telling me this? I’m not a wizard. I can’t do what you can. I’d help George if I could. Instead, I listen to him scream in pain and watch him lose his mind, I pick up in the pieces in the morning, and the rest of the month we treat each other like we’re not monsters. That’s all I can do for him.”

“Why befriend him at all? You’re a vampire. He’s a werewolf. You’re natural enemies.”

“Remus helped me, once. I knew it didn’t have to be the way they all think it is. Besides, George and I are alike. Neither of us quite fit in the world like we’re supposed to. But we fit together well enough. It’s a damn sight better than being on our own.”

“That’s the view I’ve always taken.”

“He seems happy with you.”

“Likewise.”

“Okay, then.” The stairs creaked as Mitchell retreated upstairs.

George lit Mitchell’s cigarette with Mitchell’s lighter and sucked in a deep breath of smoke. As he exhaled, he watched the sun start to set, a violet and gold announcement of the coming full moon.  
\--

“I still don’t think we should be so close when the change comes.” George glanced around the small clearing, noting how near it seemed to the road. “The wolves might tear each other apart.”

“Or they might not,” Remus said mildly. He’d taken off his jacket and shoes, but otherwise seemed perfectly well composed.

“Mitchell, you should go.” George finished stripping down and folded his clothes in a neat stack.

“Only as far as the car, all right?” Mitchell glanced over at Remus and Sirius. “If you need anything—“

“I need to not rip my best friend to pieces.” George handed over his pile of clothes, then lifted his Star of David necklace over his head and pressed it into Mitchell’s hand. “Clear off.”

“Is all this really necessary?” Sirius asked.

“Let it go, Sirius.” Remus placed a hand on his shoulder. “Whatever precautions make George feel comfortable, we’ll take.”

“Just don’t...” George turned his back on his friends and shuffled to the edge of the treeline with as much dignity as a naked man could muster. “It’s not pretty to watch, alright?”

“I know. Well. I’ll leave you to it.” Sirius’ form melted into that of the large, black dog.

“He makes transfiguration look so easy, doesn’t he?” Remus asked with a thin smile.

George laughed nervously. 

“The moon’s rising.” Remus turned his eyes up, and George followed his glance. Through the intertwining branches, he could see the white moon shining in the clear sky. 

George felt the first ripple of transformation wrack his body. Remus nodded to him, as if in reassurance. But no reassurance, no solidarity could temper the pain of the change. George screamed as his bones cracked and reformed. He didn’t remember dropping to his knees, but the smell of dirt filled his nose, and he could taste grit.

The dog—Sirius—bristled and backed away several slow steps as George’s screams filled up the forest. 

The worst of it, George had always thought, was the moment his heart stopped, because surely that meant he was dying. But around that time his awareness would start to melt away, and the world would go dark, as if death had ended his pain. He wouldn’t know he’d survived until he woke in the sunlight.

This time, though, when his heart stopped and his lungs couldn’t move, he didn’t go anywhere. He felt every inch of his body forming itself to a different shape. His screams turned to howls. His fingers, now claws, dug into the soft loam of the forest floor. He could smell the cold night air, pine needles, motor oil, wet fur. 

For the first time, George found himself in the wolf’s body, looking through the wolf’s eyes up to the night sky and the full moon.  
\--

George quite liked being petted, he’d discovered. Once he and Remus had transformed without becoming mindless animals, Sirius had fetched Mitchell from the car. They’d had a good run through the forest together, and now all four were collapsed on the grass at the edge of a small lake. Mitchell had his hands buried in George’s thick ruff, drawing a satisfied rumble out of him. A little ways down the slope, Remus lay on his side with Sirius’s dog form sprawled over him, head on his belly. 

“George.”

He perked up his ears. 

“I didn’t keep this from you on purpose,” Mitchell said. “I had no idea they had a way to... Look, I know how hard the transformation is for you. You try so hard to keep that part of you separate from everything, I didn’t... I should have tried harder to get you help. I’m sorry. Please believe me.”

George shoved his big, furry head under Mitchell’s hand.

“Alright, I get the message.” He scratched behind George’s ears.  
\--

Though this time he remembered being awake all night, George didn’t feel as exhausted as he normally did returning home the morning after a full moon. He even offered to make coffee, but Remus and Sirius declined, citing their need to get back home—wherever that might be—and share what they’d learned about recruiting. 

“I’ll let you know if I hear anything about You Know Who recruiting, no matter the species,” Mitchell said.

“Send an owl if you can,” Remus said. “I’m not sure where we’ll be.”

George extended his hand to Remus. “Thanks for everything. Even knowing, just for once, that it’s possible to have a transformation like that. I’m grateful.”

Remus shook his hand, but he was frowning. “It takes magic to brew the potion. It’s not—“

“I know,” George cut him off. “It’s fine. I’ve lived with it this long. It was enough just to know it can be done.” He turned to Sirius, and patted him on the shoulder. “And thanks for your help. Sorry I tried to hit you with a magazine.”

“Yes. It’s certainly been... interesting.” 

“Sirius,” Remus admonished.

“Mitchell.” Sirius nodded politely.

“Sirius,” Mitchell replied.

“Take care of him,” Sirius said with a glance at George.

Mitchell nodded toward Remus. “Likewise. Go on, then.”

Remus stepped up next to Sirius, and gave George a little wave. With a loud pop, the two disappeared in a gust of wind.

George stood looking at the place where they’d been, and reminded himself that a week ago, wands and potions and Disapparating hadn’t been part of his world. Then he turned to his vampire and grinned. “Have you got any other old friends you haven’t told me about?”  
\--

 

**Epilogue**

“Mitchell!” George slammed the door behind him as quickly as he could. “There’s an owl on the front stoop. It’s got a parcel.”

“An owl?” Mitchell pounded down the stairs. “Let it in, for God’s sake!”

“Let it--?”

Mitchell shoved George aside and wrenched open the door. Immediately, the tawny barn owl that had been perched on the iron railing outside flew in, dropped its parcel on the kitchen table, and wheeled about to exit the way it had come. 

Mitchell closed the door after it and gestured to the box. “Open it!”

George gaped at him. “A trained bird dropped off a package like a bloody feathered FedEx, and you want to open it?”

“It’s a wizarding thing. Go on!”

George approached the table cautiously, but the special delivery appeared to be a plain, square, innocent-looking box. He tugged the card free from the twine-wrapped parcel and read. 

_Dear George,_

_Mitchell promised me any number of favours to get his hands on wolfsbane potion for you. I’ve convinced a friend—well, a colleague—to brew double batches each month. Here’s the first lot; remember, one goblet a day in the week before the transformation, and don’t skip any. _

_Mitchell cares for you a great deal, I think. Best of luck you both._

_Remus Lupin_

George lifted the clear jar of blue liquid out of its protective packaging and set it on the table. He turned to Mitchell, who hadn’t taken his eyes off him since the owl had flown in. “You knew about this? You did this for me?”

Mitchell nodded. 

“Thank you.” George looked at the card once more, then back at Mitchell. “You don’t know how much I—“

“I do know, George.” Mitchell stepped toward him and caught his hands—George’s warm and shaking hands in Mitchell’s cold ones. “I know.”

 


End file.
